Uncharted 4: Drake's Revenge
by anujdude
Summary: Nathan Drake is a troubled man. After being thrown in jail following the events of the Uncharted 3: Drake's Deception, Nathan embarks on a quest to restore his honor, his manhood, his reputation, and most importantly, to find the girl that got away. With evil lurking at every turn, can Drake, and his old friend Sully, triumph over their indefatigable enemies?
1. Serving Time

"Again, Nate?" Victor asked, his characteristic cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth.

"What the hell did you want me to do, give it up?" Drake retorted angrily.

"Orange doesn't suit you too well, you know."

Drake looked down at his uniform. Its bright orange sheen was nauseating. "Thanks for the input, Sully, I'll ask for a different color next time."

Sully pulled his cigar out of his mouth and leaned in closer. The glass separating him and Drake was smudged with fingerprints and grease. The veteran adventurer spoke into the prison phone quietly. "I got us another job."

"Yeah, Sully that's exactly what I need, stuck in jail for the second time, another godforsaken job–"

"Look, Drake. You're in no position to complain. The guy I got, he's willing to pay your bail."

Drake reclined in his chair, reluctant and unconvinced. "You do know how I got here, right? Barging into another damn museum, getting caught, I can't do this anymore."

"Relax, Nate. This one's a no-brainer. He's Italian. Name is Paul, from Boston. He runs a shady business, totally underground, it's a good operation. But more importantly, he's rich."

"What the hell does an Italian living in Boston want?"

Sully paused for a moment, trying to formulate a counterargument for Drake's inevitable objections. "He needs a violin."

Drake laughed coldly. "You want me to leave and break the law again for a stupid violin?"

Understanding Drake's incredulity, Sully put the cigar back into his mouth and smoked deeply. "It'll pay your bail, Nate. That's all that matters."

"Christ, Sully. The things you make me do," Drake mumbled, rubbing his temple with his hands. Unhappy but desperate, he accepted.

Sully leaned back, satisfied. "And it ain't just a 'stupid violin', Nate. It was Mozart's."


	2. Preparation

Nathan Drake was tired. His body ached from the months of sleeping on a metal bed in his cramped, damp prison cell. And his mind was cluttered. Naked zombies, blue mutants, almost losing Elena – they were traumatizing, and for some reason, after years of fighting and trudging on, they were resurfacing. He could barely get a good night's sleep.

The motel Sully drove to was suspicious, at best. Three of the letters in the word "Motel" sign had fallen off. Upon entering the building, Sully informed Drake, "You weren't the only one who lost his money the last time," in attempt to preemptively calm him down. Drake had become increasingly irritable recently.

The two men had to share a room. Their undesired proximity could only lead to one thing – another quarrel.

Drake, who had situated himself on the couch, bitterly declared, "This all wouldn't be happening if you didn't screw up the last job." He rubbed his ring finger gingerly, noticing the light skin formed by the cover of his old wedding ring. The ring that neither he, or his ex-wife, wore anymore.

"Starting it again, Nate?" Sully demanded irately.

"Yes, Sully, I am starting it again. If we weren't dragged into the Amazon, we wouldn't have had to take your goddamn seaplane and escape the 'low-key location' you were talkin' about. For the record, Miami is _not _low-key. And if you had bothered to do any maintenance on your goddamn seaplane, we wouldn't have crashed it into the godforsaken Everglades, and if you maybe had the guts to stay with me–"

"You were injured Nate, what the hell was I supposed to do? I had to leave you and get help–"

"You didn't have to bring the cops, Sully. And maybe if you told the truth, for once–"

"Look, Nate, I'm thankful you didn't tell them that I was the one who crashed the damn plane, okay? I am. I didn't mean for you to get into this mess. How the hell was I supposed to know that they'd convict you so harshly, heh? For Christ's sakes, Nate, I'm sorry." Sully whipped his cigar out of his mouth, and stared at the ground. He rubbed his forehead.

Drake shuffled on the couch, and looked away. He could sea the glimmering ocean from here. The sky was beautiful, a blue not so dark that you couldn't see the bejeweled sky or the dancing waters of the Atlantic. "Dammit, Sully," was all he could muster.

There was an uncomfortable silence in the room for a good two minutes. Finally, Drake had to speak – the quietness was absolutely unbearable: "So, what the hell this does this Italian guy need a violin for?"

Sully, grateful for Drake's cooperation, gleefully answered, "He's a dealer, of, you know, artifacts. Paul is like us, except he's the middle man. Apparently there's a Frenchman, some nutjob on the Riviera who wants the damn thing. Some musician'll be playing Mozart's violin at the Boston Early Music festival" – Sully produces a flyer and hands it to Drake – "and that's when we snatch it."

Drake is relieved. The job is, well, simple enough. "How much are we getting?"

"Not a lot," Sully replies, "but it'll handle the legal fees. About twenty thousand."

Drake sighs. He forgot about the divorce. "Elena's still at it, huh?"

"After what you did to her, please. Women never forget," Sully advised. Before their little misadventure in the Amazon, Drake had been staying with Elena in San Francisco, near the studio where she worked. Suffocated by the incessant tranquility of normal life, Drake broke his promise to her to never do any "stupid treasure hunt" (her words) again and "eloped" (again, her words) with Sully to the jungle. Since Drake and Elena weren't officially married yet, all she had to do was send the ring in a little envelope.

"When's the next flight out of here?" Drake asked, trying to switch the subject. The day he received that envelope – which he knew was coming, for Elena wasn't a weak or unintelligent woman, not the type to have her wishes openly violated, the type he liked – he threw both his and her ring into the Amazon River. He was pretty sure piranhas ate it or something.

"Tomorrow, already on it," Sully said, pulling out two tickets. "Of course, since you are on the no-fly list, you'll have to be, in, uh–"

Drake sat up immediately. "Sully, you gotta be shittin' me–"

"Cargo."


	3. Cue the Violins

"Okay, Sully, the guys who protect the violin travel with no bodyguards or anything. They're strictly old men. Huh, kinda like you."

Sully only glared. Drake continued, "All we have to do is slip in before the concert and get the violin. Sully?"

Sully had been staring at some young college girls walking by. Drake gave him a shove. "Dammit, Sully, pay attention. Listen, you're in the getaway car. Once I have the violin, we need to be gone. This is easy, but we can't afford to make mistakes. I'm not rotting in prison again, all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, Nate, I gotcha." Sully had resumed staring. Drake sighed. "This is what happens when you team up with a dirty old man," he muttered to himself.

Nate checked his watch. It read 6:45. The concert didn't start until half past 7, and he knew that the violin is only taken out fifteen minutes before the beginning as a security measure. That gave him exactly a half hour. "Here goes nothing," Drake said, a little rusty after months of no adventure.

He decided the best route to take, after studying the theater's layout, was to cut through the maintenance room in the basement, and head up to first floor, where a service elevator lied. He would take that elevator to the second floor, where the violin and its unimposing professorial escorts awaited. Then, it would be a simple matter of stealth, and he would weave his way to the room, take out the old men, extract the violin from its case, put it in his bag, jump down a few ledges, and voila. As the bastard Harry Flynn would say, "Bob's your uncle."

After hiding in the luggage compartment of the plane for four hours (Drake nearly broke his leg while sneaking on board, he was lucky there wasn't much security at the small airport), Drake feared his body wouldn't be able to carry on.

The plan went excellently. But, as always, there was a problem. When he approached the room containing the mysterious violin, Drake found two police offers, fully armed with bullet proof vests and handguns. He ducked behind a large cart in the hallway, trying to concoct a plan. There was no way he could take out two policemen at once, but if he could isolate one and use his radio to make a fake distress call, he could peel off some guards to another location. Fortunately, one of the policemen starting walking toward him. Perfect.

When the policeman was two feet way, Drake lurched out, grabbed the poor officer's shirt, and slammed his head against the wall furtively. The policeman was instantly concussed and he lied on the floor unconscious. Drake tried to find a radio, but there was nothing but a nightstick. Of course. Had needed to revert to be Plan B - but as always, he didn't have one.

Drake grabbed the nightstick and threw it into the middle of the hall way as a distraction. In previous firefights he'd used live grenades, but, eh, this wasn't exactly "desperate times," as Chloe put it. The policeman, confused, instantly panicked and looked around for his partner. When his head was turned away, Drake sprung into action, jumping on his back and grabbing his neck. It was a matter of seconds. Drake situated the body behind the cart.

"Okay," Drake mumbled. The door was locked. He peered through a small glass opening and found four suited men around a table. They had gray hair, skinny arms, and spoke German. Drake suddenly remembered the skeleton of the Nazi officer he had found in the submarine lodged in mountain. He shuddered and tried to move those thoughts away.

Cracking his knuckles, Drake prepared himself for action. Grabbing his trusty piece of wire, Drake unlocked the door and barged in.

"No, Mozart would not have composed a piece in A minor–"

"Why not? How could this work _not _be by Mozart– ah!"

The four men exclaimed. Their eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets. There was no movement in the room. The silence was, well, awkward.

"Please, sir, don't, err, kill us," one of the men meekly spoke.

Drake coolly closed the door and locked it behind him. He folded his arms imposingly. Not exactly the largest or scariest man in the business, he was proud to have finally scared _somebody _into submission without a fight. "Just the violin."

One of the men pointed to a case on a table. "Over there, sir," the man said. His lip was quivering like a child.

Drake took two steps forward and suddenly there was a sonorous crash. The glass of the window had been smashed, and someone, their face hidden by the shadow, had barged in. Drake pulled out his switchblade and pointed. "Hey, man, I don't want any trouble..."

Two of the four men had practically fainted.

"Drake?" the shadow voice asked.

Perplexed, Drake noticed familiarity in the voice, and remarked, "Chloe?"

The figure stepped forward. It indeed was the Australian treasure-hunting femme fatale. Boy, did he remember her. That was years ago. How could she find him? Drake was stunned. "What are you, uh, what are you doing here, Chloe?"

"I have the same question!" Chloe replied, a silver handgun in her grip. She raised the gun toward Drake.

"Hey, hey, I don't want any trouble." Drake's heart was pounding. Was she going to kill him? _Impossible_, he thought. Chloe and he, well, they had history, but they weren't enemies. In fact, they had cooperated and collaborated on a variety of occasions, oftentimes getting stuck in hairy situations. He continued, "What the hell ya doing here anyway?"

"I'm working for someone." Chloe pointed the gun towards the men and demanded, "Violin?" She proceeded to advance toward the sacred instrument when Drake blocked her path.

"Thanks for the immense detail, Frazer. Our clients can't possibly be wanting the same thing."

"You mean to say your client wants some violin, too?"

"Yeah. Why the hell else would I leave prison and come to Boston, of all places?"

"You were in prison?"

"Yeah, that stuff later," Drake dodged, trying to evade her cunning scrutiny. "Who are you working for?"

"That's confidential, my friend," Chloe responded. Only a few feet away from him, she pointed her gun at Drake and said coldly, "I need you to move, or I will pull the trigger." Sure, she had loved him a few years ago. But that was it. He'd married Elena, he'd moved, and she was left with no one. Just memories of a man whom she thought loved her back. No doubt, she was definitely still bitter. She had tried to suppress it while in England and Syria a few years ago, but the feelings bounced back. And as they did, so did her anger.

Drake sensed something suspicious. Mozart's violin was prized, surely, but it was merely an instrument. Unless Sully's contact or Chloe's client happened to be music aficionados, there had to be something more significant about the violin.

"Hey, relax, okay?" Drake raised his hands. "You don't think there's anything fishy about this, do you?"

Chloe was in the process of dismantling the violin's case when she took a pause. Drake was intuitive, and even if he had been a moron, his gut was usually always right. _It wouldn't hurt to hear him out_, her heart told her. Her mind tried to shove him away, she even considered shooting him right then and there. _Damn human emotion_, she thought. "What are you thinking?"

"It's a violin. It's a piece of wood. No two clients would want the same piece of wood unless they're classical music fans, the violin has more to it than what we can see, or our clients are the same guy."

Chloe decided to take a leap of faith. You're not supposed to reveal the identity of your client to anyone, as per protocol, but her mind wasn't in control anymore. Her heart was. "Some Italian guy, his name is Paul, he's situated somewhere here"–she gestured towards the window–"in this city. Now, I'm Australian, I don't know Boston. Who's your's?"

Drake stared at a spot on ground.

"I hate it when he does this," Chloe remarked, and rubbed her eyes. "Who's the client, Drake?"

"Same guy."


	4. Forging a Plan

"So, you're telling me that the guy who hired us to get that violin, he hired Chloe, too?" Sully asked, incredulously. He took a long sip from his coffee. The bistro was small and quiet – they were the only ones at the table.

"Look, I don't know what the violin means or what greater value the thing has – but I do know that this Paul guy knows something we don't," Drake stated. He was trying to formulate an explanation in his mind. Why would one client hire two fortune hunters for a simple job? And why was Chloe doing it?

"The violin has got to have some clues," Chloe said, assessing the menu, trying to avoid Drake's eyes. She had her signature red shirt on, and Drake had to admit that she was still attractive. He tried to push the thoughts away. Lately his mind was filled to the brim with unpractical nonsense. It was like a child's cartoon constantly plaguing his mind – he couldn't sit anymore and just think. Plainly put, he had to confess, he'd lost his edge.

But Drake couldn't resist wondering why Chloe, with her reputation still unsullied as a master thief, would work for a largely unknown, obscure Italian character in northeastern America, all for only a few thousand bucks. Her plane ticket, Drake surmised, probably cost more than her payment. She certainly had some information.

Sully was more interested in his sausage and eggs. In between mouthfuls, he declared, "Who the hell cares? It's a damn violin." He pointed to the case. "We have it, Paul needs it, we give it to him, and split the money three ways."

"Sully, that'd leave us six thousand apiece. Fine, he paid my bail. We're gonna need more than that. And there, in that case, lies the key," Drake noted.

"Nate, I don't mean to rain on your parade, but you're assuming that Mozart's violin can somehow lead to more money," Chloe added, "and assuming that it hasn't been damaged by three hundred years of being played and thrown around, how could it possibly lead to anything? It's just a damn instrument. People fiddle with it and put it back in the case."

Drake turned to Sully. "We need a room."

Sully chuckled. "Oh, you two remember to use protection."

Chloe shook her head. Drake said, "Relax there, pal, I'm sure there's something important about this damn thing."

Chloe was skeptical. "And if there isn't, if I waste the rest of my evening on some made up quest, then how do we approach Paul? This isn't exactly a cakewalk situation, you know."

Suddenly, the potential drama of their predicament excited Sully. "You think there'll be girls around?" He turned to Drake. "To be honest, ever since the crash, I haven't been getting, you know, lucky or anything. Man has his needs," Sully declared, popping a cigar into the corner of his mouth.

Drake and Chloe shuddered at the thought.


	5. Mozart

As expected, Sully dozed off on the couch in the corner of their unimpressive motel room. The past few months hadn't been easy on him, either. He had become increasingly less adventurous – his use of the term "goddamn" had decreased drastically. That was a clear indicator of something wrong. Drake looked on with a solemn sympathy attainable by only true friends. They were in this together, always, Drake thought, and they needed to figure a way out of this emotional and financial mess.

Normally, jobs don't go as bad as the last one in the Amazon did. But they weren't expecting heavily armed jungle militias and corrupt cops. Nor did they anticipate violent drug lords or human trafficking schemes. They barely got their asses out of the giant clusterfuck. Sully had done what he could to save them; it was a miracle that the veteran was able to get the duo all the way past the equator. A testament to his skill, Drake admitted in his mind. Determination charged through him. He would not settle with mediocrity. He would not let a few months of jail time ruin his career, or more importantly, his thirst for adventure. And maybe, just maybe, like a poker player with a decent hand and one chip left, he would get Elena back.

But these thoughts of glory and resurgence had to wait. If this violin didn't have anything more to it, than the plans and dreams he had just formulated would be halted before they could even get off the ground. There was a lot riding on this damned instrument, Drake thought to himself.

Chloe was uneasy. "Go Drake, find whatever you need to find. I don't want to get caught up in another mess."

"Another mess?" Drake asked, out of curiosity. It would be helpful to know that he wasn't the only victim of bad luck.

Chloe gave in. She didn't care anymore. Trying to fight against her feelings was fruitless. "It turns out you haven't been the only one getting in trouble with the law."

"Oh, yeah?" Drake was interested. "What happened?"

"Just a robbery gone wrong. You know, simple stuff. Police arrive, you try to get away, get thrown in a Peruvian women's jail, and before you know it, some random suited guy arrives to pay your bail and have you steal a violin. Just typical stuff, you know," Chloe remarked.

"No kidding?" Drake thought for a moment. "Same here. Sully got us into a mess in South America. Long story short, plane crash in Miami. Put into an American jail. Best part – orange jumpsuit. Then six months later Sully reappears with a job offer. This can't just be coincidence."

Chloe was intrigued. And all this, before he even looked at the violin. Her curiosity was uncontrollable. She opened the metal case and gently slid it over to Drake. "Take a look."

Drake gingerly picked the violin up. Chloe closed the bedroom door to muffle Sully's snores to allow Drake to concentrate. Drake examined the violin, the strings, even the bow. He found nothing.

"There isn't anything here," Drake stated, clearly exasperated. In a ditch attempt, Drake asked Chloe for a microscope and he peered through F-holes of the instrument. His heart stopped. "Wait a second..."

Chloe became excited. Her reputation was in need of repair, as well. These times, she figured, must have been bad for everyone.

"Nate, what are you looking at?" she asked.

"You gotta see this, Chloe..." Drake told her, his mind trying to decipher what he'd just seen.

Chloe peered through the glass and found only unintelligible German. _Für die Freimaurer ich schrieb. Für die Freimaurer ich sang. Für die Freimaurer liegt der Schirm Gottes Krieger, ein Krieger mit dem Brüllen eines Löwen und einem Hauch von Feuer._

"What the hell does that say?" Chloe demanded, clearly confused.

"For the Masons I wrote. For the Masons I sang. For the Masons lies the shield of God's warrior, a warrior with the roar of a lion and a breath of fire." His voice was monotonous; Chloe deduced that he was in the zone.

"That's jibberish, Nate."

"No, no... it's not, it makes perfect sense. For the last seven years of Mozart's life, he was a Mason. The Masonic order, it played a strong role in his life. He was a rationalist, he wasn't a mystic or occultist, but he was an Enlightenment thinker. Jesus, Chloe..."

"What are you saying, Drake?"

"Mozart, he was a member of the Illuminati."

Chloe laughed incredulously. "Nate, a few months out of it and here you are, making absolutely absurd claims. Nate, I thought we were on to something."

"Listen, Chloe. It's not ridiculous. This Bavarian professor, Adam Weishaupt, he founded the Illuminati. He was Mozart's friend. More importantly, the Illuminati were the rationalist Masons, the kind Mozart was. It fits in."

Still unyielding, Chloe asked, "So, what? If he's Illuminati, can we make some money? Is there any treasure or anything?"

"Of course," Drake replied, noting something in his journal. "There always is."


	6. Old Flames

"Okay, Nate, we've figured out one of history's greatest composers was a Masonic radical involved with some shady intellectual fads. Now what? What's the plan?"

Drake looked at her. "Chloe, have I ever thought anything through that far?"

Chloe shook her head and grinned. While Drake was fiddling with his journal, she noticed the discoloration on his ring finger – his ring was not there. Chloe's heart raced. "Where's your ring, old pal?" she asked sarcastically, trying to hide her interest.

"Oh, this. Ugh, long story short... Elena divorced me. Well, not really. We weren't actually married, but she's jabbering about the apartment and the camera... That damn camera." Drake sighed. His life was in shambles. But this one violin – Jesus, a violin, Drake thought to himself – could be his salvation.

Chloe looked at him, her face resonating a sense of disbelief. "So, you're telling me, you left me, after all we'd been through in goddamn Nepal with the bloodthirsty maniac Lazarevic, you left me for a woman you'd divorce?"

Drake was confused by her sudden anger. Unable to understand where all this started, Drake responded, "Look, I mean, I screwed up. I acknowledge that. I screwed up with her. But, I mean, come on, was there really, I mean, a future, for, you know, _us_?" The second that came out of Drake's mouth he knew he was a goner.

"Oh, excuse _me_, I'm sorry, I didn't realize that I was inferior and incompatible with the world's greatest treasure hunter. Oh, Nathan Drake, King of Shambhala, Slayer of Mutants, Occupier of Prison Cells – oh, yes, Sully told me all about your 'adventure' in South America – this man is too good for me. Well, I suppose I'll be on my way then." Chloe was enraged.

Drake rushed to the door and blocked her exit. "Oh, come on Chloe, that's not what I meant. Relax, okay? We've been through a lot–"

"That's all you have to say? You're a jerk, Nate, I should've known better, I should've taken the violin and left and given the damned thing to Paul–"

"Why are you upset, Chloe? You're, I mean, you're smart and beautiful, I mean you're _you_? You're strong-willed and practical, I mean, you don't need the proverbial 'man'. And if you wanted one, you could get one anywhere?"

"You don't understand, Nate," Chloe replied, rubbing her eyes, trying to fend off the waterworks. She had evolved into a crier recently, a transition she didn't like. From cold pragmatism and stony self-interest she had disintegrated into passion and emotion. She didn't know how. She didn't know why. But she didn't want it. Nate had caused it. Her flings with Flynn had caused it, too. But mostly Nate. She hated it. "I've become, I've become, I dunno, Nate. I don't like playing the villain. I don't want to be me, anymore, Nate. I need a purpose, something to fight for. And you leaving me – yes, that did have an effect – and this jail time... it's changed me, Nate. I don't know why or how. But it has." She slumped down onto the bed.

Drake had no idea he was important to Chloe – or that she cared about him even in the slightest, for that matter. He didn't know that leaving her for Elena on that Himalayan mountaintop would be so consequential. For the first time, ace treasure hunter Drake, who had managed to evade war criminals and crazy Indonesian pirates and Arabian armies, was at a loss for words.

"What are you going to do?" Chloe cried, "Just stand there and watch me cry?" She was sobbing, in a manner completely uncharacteristic of the woman who, just two years ago, was absolutely willing to leave an injured cameraman behind to save herself and her uninjured counterparts.

Drake situated himself near her, and he put his arm around her shoulders. He looked down at his lap. "Chloe, I, I had no idea. And, and, you're not the only one. I've lost my edge. I don't feel like myself. Especially without Elena. God, I'm an idiot," Drake declared, his hand rubbing his forehead. "Look, just this one job. This once. Paul doesn't know we've found out whatever asshole plan he has... You, me, Sully, let's get this one little hunt down, okay? With some money in our pockets, with some goddman honor back, we'll be right on our way again. Huh, whaddya say, Chloe?" He squeezed her shoulder. He couldn't help but notice how stunningly attractive she was. But he knew he didn't love her. Sure, he liked her, she saved his skin on numerous occasions – but Elena was his. It was his fault for picking a woman resistant to his immaturity and inconsistency. If he was going to get her back, he would have to think of Chloe only as a friend...

She kissed him. He could feel her lipstick against his lips, her salty tears touched his nose. Her hand was on his cheek, gracefully gliding across his skin. Drake was enraptured for a moment. He remembered. He remembered the night with Chloe. The days fighting in the Nepali city. The days hunting the Cintamani stone. But his thoughts wandered. He suddenly recalled Elena, and her beautiful white skin, and her blonde hair, and her eyes, God her eyes, he thought. For a moment he thought he was sitting next to Elena. Drake was about to push Chloe down on the bed when he paused for a moment. He was letting his carnal desires dictate his decisions. Just because he hadn't been with a woman for a while didn't allow him to forgo his actual plans to find Elena and set up a real future. Chloe, was his friend, of course – but she wasn't Elena. She was a beautiful woman, but not Elena beautiful. She was smart and brave, but no Elena badass. And she didn't have a camera. _A camera is a must_, Drake thought, thoughts of happier times lingering in his head. He then looked at Chloe solemnly. "I can't."

Chloe understood. In a way, she was thankful. His single rejection finalized her feelings. The journey ahead lied not in the past, but in the future. Chloe Frazer would carve out her own legacy. And she did not need a man to do it. After all, Nate wasn't for her – any real man would have kissed her and made love by now, and would not have been impeded by feminine emotion and sensitivity. She was Australian, from the merciless Outback – flamboyant romance, calmness, and gradualness were not concepts in her backyard. Her future lied forward, away from Nate or Flynn or anybody else. Not in old flames, but new ones. _Flames_, she thought – she immediately remembered the explosions on Lazarevic's platforms in Borneo.

Besides, she had a great ass and even better brains – she could find _anyone_.

Chloe touched Drake's fingers with her hand. Their hands lay on the creeky bed, unmoving. Finally, some progress in the emotion department. For the first time in a the past six months, both Chloe and Drake knew exactly what they had to do. Find the treasure. And more importantly, get the guy and girl. And get their lives back on track.


	7. Mystery

It was morning. The sun gleamed through the dusty window, pouring light on the carpet and on the bed. The sunlight made Drake's eyes burn. He woke up suddenly – he had been lying on the couch. His back ached like hell. Drake glanced at Chloe, who was still sleeping on the bed. Thankfully, she was still fully clothed. He was not going to compromise his goal of getting Elena back.

Prison had been bad for Drake's sleep. He could barely go for two or three hours before he had to wake up again. His eyes were red and itchy. "Dammit," he muttered.

At breakfast, Sully, Chloe, and Drake all congregated at the motel's dining room. A suspicious meal of possibly rotten eggs and bacon was being served in the dank eating area. But, they were starving. As usual, Sully gobbled down his eggs and meat and didn't care much for the conversation. But Chloe needed some answers.

"OK, Nate, now that we know Mozart was slightly off in the not-being-an-Illuminati-member department what do we do now? Where do we go from here? We've been jumping to conclusions. We've assumed that that inscription in Mozart's violin leads somewhere. Does it?"

Drake paused for a moment. If it wasn't for Elena's journalistic eye for detail and task-oriented drive, he'd be nowhere. He missed that. "I'm working on it," he told Chloe, nervously.

Chloe threw her hands up. "Nate, we need to go to a library. To make sure that this, if it is anything, is true. For all we know Mozart was drunk when he scribbled that nonsense into his instrument."

A library. Not such a bad idea. "All right, library it is." He went over to the motel counter and picked up a map of Boston from the racks of flyers and brochures for tourist and hotel sites. He studied it for a moment, and returned to the table. "The Boston Public Library is on this road, err, Boylston Street. Near the Copley train station. It's simple, we hop onto Boston light rail and voila, we get there in a matter of no time." He made some marks with his red marker. The last time he did that, Lazarevic almost killed all of them. Chloe took the map from it and hid it safely in her boot. She wasn't letting that happen again.

Sully paused his voracious eating and said, "You mean to say we're _not _going to ogling at young women passing by?"

"No," Drake replied, worried. The last time Sully was "interested" in women he nearly got them killed in a Brazilian slum. "Sully, there might be money riding on this. We can't compromise this one bit."

Sully popped his cigar back into his mouth. "Let's hope there really is something behind all this Mozart funny business. It would be a shame if you guys did all this dreaming and 'emotional reconnection' in vain."

"You heard that?" Chloe demanded, unhappy that she'd revealed her new emotional side to a third party.

"Of course," Sully remarked. "I still don't understand why you two didn't make love, but–"

Drake and Chloe both groaned.


	8. Hunting

On the subway ride to the library, Chloe turned to Drake and asked, "So, tell me this Drake – why was the violin protected by only old men? I was expecting more of a fight."

"They like to travel low-key and keep a low-profile, which is what we'll have to do when we confront Paul. I've thought of a plan, but, it's a gamble." Drake looked at his notebook. "But first, let's figure out what Mozart meant."

The Boston Public Library was expansive. Filled with volumes from every century, virtually every author, and every time period, Drake was reassured – _There's got to be something here that can help_, he thought.

Drake peered down at the library information brochure and discovered that historical documents and research materials relating to the seventeenth century intellectual, cultural, or musical life were stored in Archive Room B. The trio approached the clerk at the information desk for access to the room.

The man operating the desk pulled his pretentious eyeglasses to the tip of his nose and evaluated the crew. They were dirty and disheveled, surely not worthy of the immense scholarship contained within the room's walls. "Of course not," he proclaimed, "I can't give you access, sorry." He was young, a college student by the look of his Harvard sweatshirt, and quite nervous.

Determined, Chloe pulled Drake and Sully back a few feet. In a huddle, Chloe said calmly, "I'll handle this." She walked to the desk, shaking her posterior quite flamboyantly. Drake and Sully couldn't hear what Chloe said to the young man. But she led him straight to the clerk office right behind the desk. Chloe emerged about two minutes later. She returned to Drake and Sully, still standing in the middle of the floor, with keys whipping around her index finger.

She tossed them to Drake, who inquired, "What did you do exactly?"

Sully said, "I can make a pretty good guess–"

"I used these," Chloe remarked, pointing to her shiny brass knuckles. "New toy."

Sully and Drake were both very impressed.

Archives Room B was in the basement level. It was huge, and had enormous rows of thick books in glass, climate-controlled cases. "Be very careful," Drake said quietly.

"Oops," Sully muttered. He cigar had fallen on a 1743 ship manifest that he'd been looking at. The pages turned black from the cigar flame. Drake shook his head.

After a few hours of searching, they found it – a whole glass case devoted to Mozart. Drake was excited. Sully was bored, and Chloe was not too interesting, either. Research wasn't exactly her thing.

"Let's go, Nate, hurry up."

Finally, Drake came upon a document relevant to Mozart's Masonic activities. It was a letter, supposedly written by Mozart on his death bed. There was an attached note from some third-party research company that described reasons why experts didn't think this letter was actually written by Mozart, but he didn't care. These so-called "research experts" were almost always fatuous nincompoops.

Drake paused his frenzied work. "For the Masons I wrote. For the Masons I sang. For the Masons lies the shield of God's warrior, a warrior with the roar of a lion and a breath of fire," he repeated. He was scribbling ferociously in his notebook.

Sully wasn't satisfied. "Yeah, Nate, we know that much. What else?"

"Sully," Drake replied, "Mozart was referring to Richard the Lionhearted."

"The same Third Crusade Richard who sold all the royal offices and sent an army to fight the Muslims? That Richard? The English one who drank tea and ate biscuits?"

"Yes, Sully, _that _one."

"What did Mozart have to do with Richard the Lionhearted?"

"That's what we need to figure out."

"Okay, how about this? Nate can stay here and do all the research, and I'm gonna go get my nails done. Australian nails don't fare well with days without showers staying in shady motels in strange, foreign cities. See you back at the hotel." And with that, Chloe unceremoniously abandoned the group.

Sully was quick to hop on the bandwagon. "Yeah, Nate, this seems like its in your backyard. I'm gonna go refill my cigar tank"–he pointed to his empty carton–"I'll catch you later, at the hotel."

Drake was annoyed, but it was probably for the best, anyway. "Here we go," he muttered to himself. A row of hundreds of thick, old historical volumes awaited him, a challenge far more challenging than fighting Lazarevic or Roman.


	9. Discovery

**Author's Note: Sorry for the delay with the chapters. This one is extra long, the longest chapter so far, just for you guys as an apology. Furthermore, I'd like to point out that a lot of facts used in this story are historically accurate. Mozart's violin actually came to Boston recently, the Boston Music Festival is a real event that was in the news recently, and un-intimidating old people actually do travel with Mozart's violin. Mozart did travel to Italy, but the stuff about the Di Vittorios and Richard the Lionhearted is all fabricated. ****_Thank you for reading. Remember to make a review, favorite, follow, or private-message me if you're interested or if you liked it! Thanks! _**

It had been hours. Numerous librarians had come and gone, warning him to leave, but Drake's concentration was impregnable. Spending the whole evening and a good chunk of the evening pouring over old books and volumes, Drake was led out of the library by a Boston policeman and unceremoniously thrown out of the premises.

Boston was a beautiful, simple, clean city. The streets were wide, the people were largely well-informed and kind, and the stars in the sky gleamed like dancing jewels, their reflections grazing across the come Boston harbor. The smell of salt and the rhythmic, hypnotic motion of the ocean was calming. Drake couldn't help but stare at the beauty of it all. This was what he missed – the chance to explore, to learn, to see new things, smell new smells, and most importantly, spend time with Elena. By this time, Elena was nothing but a shadowy figure hidden in the recesses of his mind, like the Francis Drake's coffin, and he was going to recover it successfully, he was going to find this inner treasure, too. _With the body inside, this time, _he thought.

He was hopeful and excited, but slightly crestfallen at the same time. His research had born fruit – giant pieces of informations that easily paved the way to some sort of tangible reward, the kind that was worth _hundreds of millions_. This was easily his biggest find yet, and he had to tell someone.

His mind was confused. Part of his brain still couldn't believe the limitless potential hidden Drake's copious notes. The other part wanted to get away from it all, go back to Elena and their California apartment, and stare out at the gleaming Pacific. Yet another portion of his mind just wanted to give someone a good sock in the eye, a sort of revenge for the past few months of bad luck. Divided, unfocused, and slightly delusional, Drake returned to the hotel like a drunk man.

Chloe was filing her nails on the bed, and Sully was smoking a cigar watching a pay-per-view boxing match, when Drake barged in. "I got it," he proclaimed, resembling a mad scientist.

"What did you find, Nate?" Sully asked, pulling the cigar out of his mouth.

"A crap ton." Drake dropped onto the bed and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was tired. He was excited. He was reluctant. Crazy. Enraged. Confounded. Eager. _All _at the same time. Chloe sensed his internal strife and decided not to pile on with inquisitions as she normally would have done. Sully wasn't so considerate.

"Dammit, Nate, a lot's riding on this. Ah, crap, he's snoring. Chloe, wake him up and make him tell us what the hell's going on," he barked eagerly.

"I'm awake, old man," Drake said bitterly. "Mozart, he was an old guy, three-hundred years old or something. You wouldn't think he and the Masons, the Illuminati rationalist Masons that is, were involved with the Crusades. But, but they were. There is a connection between Mozart and Richard the Lionhearted, and we know there is because if you pour through all the letters, transcripts, manifests, documents the term "lion" is never used. What's more, whenever Mozart _did _mention the Crusades, more specifically the Third Crusade, you see this eerie symbol." He pointed to a small image of a lion being slain by a group of humans. "The lion, upon further research," he stated, professorially, "was an old Masonic image. It was used to depict nobility, valor, courage, in the Masonic order. And we know why this lion refers particularly to Richard because Mozart brings him up by name in one of the old letters sent to his friend, the founder of the Illuminati. This musician, he was slightly crazier than I'd thought. He was arguably more instrumental in the founding of the Illuminati than the actual founder. Mozart set up this whole 'Richard the Lionhearted' fad and this pervasive belief in the organization in, well, Lions."

That was a lot to take in. But Chloe wasn't satisfied. "So, we know two things: Mozart was a member of the Illuminati, a strong part of it, and he and his group of crazies loved Richard the Lionhearted and lions. But why?"

"Here's where it gets interesting. In 1769, Mozart, and his father Leopold, left their hometown of Salzburg in Austria to go to Milan. They made two trips there, but the first one is more important. In Milan they encountered all sorts of royal officials, dignitaries, aristocrats, important people, you know what I mean. But, in one of his journals, Mozart spends less than a sentence describing one man in particular that he and his father met during their travels. He was a Milanese banker, Flaviano Di Vittorio. This guy, there isn't much about him, mainly because during the 1700s Milan wasn't as important as it was back in the Middle Ages. But, this Di Vittorio guy, when you go back and look at this ancestors – he's connected to the Medicis, the Fuggers, the Bardi families. But you never hear of the Di Vittorio's. They weren't a family, but they were a secret society, they too used the 'Lion' symbol. They were the ones connected to Richard the Lionhearted in the first place. They drew Mozart in."

"Another secret society?" Sully asked, slightly suspicious.

"These guys, they had members in almost every bank in Europe. They were rich, intelligent, cunning, the first international organized financial organization. Of course, they were shady, controversial, secretive. They controlled the Netherlands for two-hundred years! It was these Di Vittorio bankers who got rid of King Louis XVI, who wanted to implement rigid banking regulations in France and limit the Di Vittorio power. They did it by refusing to finance his government anymore. But this isn't the point. The point is Mozart became a secret member of the Di Vittorios."

"Okay, so the Illuminate foundational structure, it drew inspiration from rationalist Freemasons and the Masonic order, but also from Richard the Lionhearted and the lion symbol originated by the Di Vittorios? So you're saying Mozart isn't important, he was just a facilitator of this transaction of ideas and symbols?" Chloe asked.

"Exactly, Mozart pulled his inspiration from the Di Vittorios and helped found the Illuminati. But he is still important. All his letters, drawings, music scores, a bunch of them have the 'Lion' symbol. But when we dig deeper, beyond the Di Vittorios, we find Amberto. Now, Amberto was orphaned at the age of seven and became a servant in one of Milan's richest families. Now, we don't exactly know what happened, but by the time he was 17, he inherited all their wealth because his family, mysteriously, was killed in an 'unspecified incident'. So this Amberto guy, he starts the Di Vittorio banking apparatus in Milan, and the organization grows, and spreads, and he gets fabulously rich. Until one day, he locks himself in his room for five days. He rights six hundred pages of incomprehensible nonsense. Nobody knows what he wrote. Cryptologists have studied it, they're called the 'Amberto Writings', and there is no code or key or legend to help understand what the hell he was rambling about. Then, once he unlocks himself, he gorges on nothing but cheese and grapes for eight hours and then he leaves. He takes all his money, all his investments, all the loans he's giving he demands back, he ultimately kills the nascent, new, struggling Di Vittorio organization by packing away all its finds and financial resources. He puts it all on a boat, all the gold and silver and jewels and slaves under Di Vittorio control, and he sails in to Acre, a city in northern Israel where Richard the Lionhearted first landed with his army, and lives there in seclusions until his suicide in 1491, exactly three hundred years after Richard's landing at the Acre. Nobody knows what Amberto knows or what he did. His fleet was supposedly attacked by pirates and all his treasure was, supposedly, stolen."

"So? You did all that research for nothing? This guy's treasure's gone?" Sully demanded.

"No, Sully, let me finish. Amberto must have had the treasure because, as I mentioned earlier, Richard the Lionhearted was this important figure for these guys, the Di Vittorios. He was a figurehead, an extreme mascot if you will. He wouldn't have donned a Lion pin on his most expensive robes for a self-portrait secretly commissioned during the last few days of his life. He died, but he died a rich man."

"So there's hope, the treasure might be in this Acre place?"

"Yeah, definitely. The only accounts about the pirates stealing his treasure come from Amberto's own personal letters and family papers marked with the 'Lion' symbol."

"Jesus, Nate. Israel?" Chloe asked, frustrated.

"What, you don't like Israel?"

"No, it's not that. I used to be Jewish, you know. But I never really liked it. My Hebrew teacher was an asshole. But fine, when's the next flight out of here?"

Sully replied grimly, "Well, if Nate hadn't got his ass into prison over here, and if, I admit, if I hadn't taken so long to get some bail together to get his ass out, then maybe we'd have some money to go to Israel and find this damn treasure. And Nate, we didn't need that whole history lecture."

"Sorry, Sully, I–"

Drake and Sully were astonished to see Chloe pulling out wads of cash hidden in her boots.

"You keep your money _there_?"

"'Desperate times', right?"

Sully turned to Drake and said, "That girl. Always full of surprises."

He popped his cigar back into his mouth. But Drake still didn't know what the hell she meant.


	10. Elena Fisher

Her apartment was full of cardboard boxes. It looked awful – pieces of furniture, dust, cobwebs, it all mixed together to create a highly uncomfortable environment. It had been six long, lonely months, but she still hadn't had the time – or willpower – to go ahead and erase the past.

"Hey, so this is it–"

The man, whom she had met only a few hours ago at a pompous nightclub, kissed her deeply. She led him to the bedroom, tangled in his arms, and the couple shut the door quickly.

Elena was exhausted. By the time she woke up, it had been twelve hours. The man she had slept with, he left before she rose. It was always like that. No name, no number. Just one night. And nothing after that. In many ways, this system was demoralizing and isolating. It made her feel more alone, if anything. But it seemed to be the only way. Night after night, get drunk, meet a guy, have empty sex, and never see his face again.

The morning sun poured through her California apartment. San Francisco was a beautiful city, but the past year or so had engendered a deep hatred for sunlight, beaches, surprisingly excellent public transportation, great food – all the things the city had to offer. She donned an oversized sweatshirt, still in her underpants, and she ambled to the kitchen.

Elena yawned, wondering what to eat. She opened the fridge, finding only a half-eaten meatball sub. "What the hell," she muttered. Nothing like sausage and marinara sauce in the morning.

While munching on her cold, unimpressive meal, she stumbled over some cardboard boxes blocking the hallway. The sauce spilled all over the floor, and she dropped the sandwich. "Shit." But she honestly couldn't care less. The past year had made her numb to practically _everything_.

She kneeled down to the floor to begin the tedious process of clean up when she noticed a small frame stuck between two cardboard boxes. Curious, she picked it up and examined it. Encased was an old photo of Drake and Elena; they were in Tahiti, in French Polynesia.

Immediately, she started crying. What had she become? She had become nothing. Drake was the world to her. He was, literally, everything. Finally, she had found love, something she had always wanted. Her successful career, her award-winning journalism, it had catapulted her to fame and she had her own show – but it all crumbled in the emptiness, in the loneliness, in her fruitless desire to simply be _with him_.

She didn't know what it was. She thought she wanted to settle down, further her career, eat at fancy restaurants, see movies, go places (without the warlords), and wake up and cuddle like normal couples. She didn't want him to go. She hadn't realized that he had given up so much for her, he tossed aside the one thing he loved, she made him bottle it all up until he couldn't take it anymore and had to leave, like a man does once he's been underwater for too long and has run out of air.

Yet, at the same time, she thought, Elena knew some blame was on Drake. Marriage is _marriage_. You at least talk about things, you don't pack up and leave. She remembered the argument they had vividly. Working fourteen hour work days, Drake was left alone in the apartment. He had literally nothing to do. He was incredibly intelligent, but he lacked the credentials for "legitimate" work. The piercing words, the fighting – it ate at the pillars of their marriage until one day, the ceiling crumbled under the pressure, and the house of cards collapsed.

Tears streamed down her cheeks. This was how it was now. She wondered if Drake felt it. Elena knew she didn't have Drake's resolve or determination. She had the courage and vivaciousness, sure; she convinced him to continue on that Pacific island a few years ago. But she couldn't deal with the burden of loneliness.

She loved him so much. Every day, every passing moment, she wanted to be with him, she wanted everything to be okay, she wanted him. But he couldn't go on adventures and she couldn't be a television star journalists simultaneously. Their incongruous lifestyles, incompatible dreams, irreconcilable career paths – like the thrashing, violent sea against helpless beaches, it eroded their marriage.

Of course, the marriage wasn't _official_. Drake couldn't walk to a court and declare himself to be married, especially considering the legal conundrum he was in. After all, he was imprisoned in Turkey – questions would be asked, old incidents from the past would be raised, and an avoidable mess would have to be dealt with. But it was an ominous beginning, fitting for a marriage so disastrously short-lived.

She remembered him deeply. His arms, his chest, his comforting voice, his gentle touch. It all mattered. More than her damn apartment. More than her jaw-dropping salary or enviable studio job.

Elena wondered if Drake remembered her. She dug her head, with all its beautiful white skin and dancing golden hair, into her palms and cried.

It was too late. Regardless of where the responsibility fell, where the loved used to live, what her feelings were, it was too late. He was gone. And probably, forever.

_I really need a boyfriend_, she thought.


	11. More Pain

The office was buzzing. Interns and junior staff members scurried like scared mice, delivering coffee and papers and pushing around carts of binders and books. Elena Fisher sat at her desk. She rubbed her forehead - she couldn't work in this overwhelmingly busy environment. Her network was being bought out by some obscure corporation she knew nothing about, and some major changes were coming. Everyone was nervous. Layoffs, show cancellations, and salary cuts were all in store for the helpless studio staff.

This pressure of being possibly fired or demoted hung on Elena's shoulders. Her show, Modern Mysteries, was a huge hit, accruing millions of viewers every week her show aired. In fact, it was responsible for a huge portion of the network's profits. But she heard that the new owners weren't big fans of scientific journalism or investigative reporting - they were more into pretentious reality television about pregnant teens, coke-snorting reprobates, and unruly housewives. She, for obvious reasons, was not enthused.

She felt a tap on her shoulder. It was one of her interns. "Hey, Mrs. Fisher, the director wants to see you." Elena's heart stopped. What did Georgina, the studio head and manager of the company transition, want with her? She couldn't handle being fired. Her job, her career - it was her one connection to reality. It stopped her from being overwhelmed by the quiet desperation and distress caused by her divorce.

"Hi, Georgina, what can I do for you?" Elena asked, trying to sound pleasant and constructive. Her nervousness was biting at her, like a relentless bloodhound.

"Elena. I'm going to be direct. Your show, it's, well, marvelous. It has singlehandedly brought untold success to our struggling studio."

Elena was confused. Was this going to be a good meeting or a bad meeting? She struggled to calm down. In many ways this made her more anxious. "Oh, uh, thanks. So, why am I here?"

Georgina's bright smile vanished. This was not a good sign. Her voice became tense and stern. "Elena. You know you're my favorite. You've been like a daughter to me, all these years." Elena didn't know what to say.

"But," Georgina ominously continued, "the new studio owners, they, uh, they do not find your show as spectacular as I do." Georgina pushed a file labeled "Show Cancellation Information" towards Elena.

Electrical shocks spread throughout her body, paralyzing her. All the desperate angst, the bitter sadness caused by Drake's sudden departure, all the days of sleeping next to his warm body, all the hours of staring at computer screens, churning out award-winning journalism were for nothing. All these memories and moments crashed down on her like a tsunami. Pressure grew on her upper back and neck. She wanted to cry.

"But my show's done so much for this damn studio-"

"Luckily," Georgina interrupted, trying to assuage her pained protege, "you're not fired. We need somebody on local news. There's an opening, and we're going to make a new segment called 'Local Mysteries', where you go around examining things like haunted taverns and interviewing people like that forty year old man who ran naked on the field during the UCLA football game."

Elena sank into her chair. From renowned television personality to interviewer of naked old men. "Oh, gee, thanks, Georgina. You wanna know what you're doing? Let me tell you. Let me enlighten you. You're taking a baby away from her mother, right, and you're thrusting some random kid from halfway around the world into her arms! I'm not meant for 'News'. I'm not meant for anything but my show. I've given up so much, literally everything, you know, my life, my husband, I gave up my husband for this job, and this is what I get. You know what? Screw you!"

Elena stood up dramatically. She didn't exactly know what to do next. Dammit, Nate, she thought. He had influenced her.

Georgina sat understandingly. She knew the pain of being fired, or demoted. But it was out of her hands. She didn't say much. It was best to let the people sitting on the other side of the desk to figure it out themselves without the patronizing, diminishing input of others.

Dejected, Elena surrendered and asked meekly, "When do I start?"

"Tonight. We need you to go to Boston. Cover the whole stealing of Mozart's violin story. Of course, it's only a four-minute segment." She held up an economy class ticket. "You get to spend three days there, that's nice, right?"

Four minutes. From a whole hour time slot with twelve million viewers to just four minutes on the six o'clock local news.

The first thing Elena did when she got back to her desk in the middle of the chaotic office buzz was call one of her girlfriends from college who lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

"Hey," she said, "Know any cute guys in the city?"

The once unbeatable ace reporter was now the emotionally deranged, lost, unaware, distressed, and unfortunate owner of a local news segment.

What matters so much about the damned violin anyway? Elena asked herself.


	12. Discussion

"We've got to figure out a way to confront Paul about this," Sully proclaimed. He was wearing his classic Hawaiian t-shirt and khaki pants. His cigar, as usual, hung slyly from the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah, but how are we gonna do it? We can't barge in at gunpoint. Who knows how many hired guns this man has? And we can't reveal to him that we've conspired together. I still don't understand why we paid two steep prices for only one object," Chloe said.

Drake stared at his journal. Usually, he could act impulsively; even without a plan, he was daring and decisive, with a near perfect success rate. But as always, luck runs out - and he was left with no ideas. "What if, what if he wanted us to meet?" Drake asked. The thought just occurred to him.

"What do you mean? Why would he want us to meet?" Chloe replied.

"Maybe he knew that he lacked half the clues. If he could somehow collide us together, and I don't know how he'd know that we knew each other and would figure the whole deal out, he could squeeze the real information out of us and leave us on the side of the road."

"A play right out of old Flynn's book, huh, Drake?" Sully remarked, teasingly.

Still better about his deceased rival's unexpected and brutal betrayal, Drake chose to ignore the topic for fear of raising his blood pressure. Calming down, he said, "It would make sense. If you're a rich Mafia guy, and you need answers, you don't just hire two treasure hunters to do the same job. Maybe he wanted to just use us. Have us do the work and eliminate us. It's the only plausible explanation. He probably saw us as a threat."

"You're right," Sully said, pulling the cigar out of his mouth. "He was one of Talbot's old associates. He probably heard of us. I mean he is Mafia - he is paranoid all the time. Hiring us and getting us out of the way - makes sense."

"We need to make a plan of attack. If we approached him separately, he'd be suspicious. His plan is banking on us finding each other. We should play along. We go to him. Sully, too. We give him what he wants - but we etch out the violin's message. We don't bring anything. We don't tell him anything. We collect our money, and we walk out-"

"And if things get hairy," Chloe interrupted, "we can always use these." She produced three Para 9 handguns. Drake didn't even bother to ask how she got her hands on those. Sully put the cigar back into his mouth and took a big puff.

"Let's hope we don't need them" Drake pointed out.

Sully advised, "Don't worry, Nate. We always do."


	13. Firefight

The bullets whizzed past Drake's head like darts. They were fast and unforgiving, but there was a sense of calmness, surreality, intensity, a _necessity_ to them that appealed to Drake. He had forgotten adventure from his months of rotting in an American prison. Now he was back – in his heart, those gunshots solidified and legitimized his return into the world of daring discovery and thievery.

But that didn't make the violent experience any less terrifying. Chloe and Drake were pinned down behind large bookcases interspersed through a voluminous library. The duo dashed through rows of old volumes, as the _pit-pat pit-pat _of bullets smashing through paper and leather followed them closely. One misstep and _boom _– they'd be dead.

Paul was a cunning businessman. He was not one to easily pay his dues. Drake had learned that fact through an unfortunate turn of events. But now he was here, as he always was, frighteningly close to being chopped up by merciless henchmen, cheating Death, gambling his life at a chance for glory.

Tragically, there wasn't much glory to be had when being pursued by ruthless sharpshooters. While sprinting towards a set of large wooden doors, they were suddenly thrown off their feet and hurled almost ten feet. An enormous explosion set forth by a rocket propelled grenade left a large radius of ruin.

_So much for adventure_, Drake muttered to himself, as he tried to get back on his feet and keep running. The doors in front of him were obliterated, leaving a gaping hole leading to the next room. His chest and lower back ached insanely, as if someone had gashed him with a pointy knife. But he had to keep going.

He was about to burst through the makeshift opening when his mind remembered something important that he had overlooked: _Chloe_. He turned around quickly, clutching his bloody stomach – just as he had done on that fateful train in Nepal – saw, to his utter horror, her body caught under a heavy pile of books and destroyed wood.

His heart stopped. Was she dead?

"He's over there! Get him!" Drake looked up to see the large form of gunman dash towards him. He instinctively drew out of his handgun and fired three consecutive shots. The unfortunate mercenary tried to breathe, but couldn't. The bullets had ripped through his chest and throat.

Drake rushed towards Chloe. "Come on, speak to me, come on girl, I gotcha," he mumbled excitedly. The feeling of cavernous emptiness and petrifying sorrow enveloped him just as it had in Shanghri-La, when Elena was hurt by that vile Flynn's twisted grenade sacrifice.

Chloe muttered something incomprehensible. Drake was relieved. "Come on, baby, speak to me..." He pulled the wood and pile of ruined books aside. He could hear more men coming. He heaved her up, wrapped one of her bloody arms around his neck, and supported the rest of her weight. He was _not _going to lose her.

"Drake, I can't–"

"Chloe, yes, you can. Let's go." Drake turned around and emptied the rest of his gun's magazine out at the group of men behind him. He managed to kill one and wound another. The other three ducked for cover.

He found walking with Chloe on his side to be cumbersome. He decided to carry her in his arms, much like he had done with Elena. _Elena_. Her gorgeous creamy white skin, her golden hair, her lips, her wonderful eyes – all of it flowed through him like a wildfire. The gunshots of his pursuers knocked him back into reality. He had severely underestimated how much she meant to him.

He ran down the old stone corridor. It was the very same one he had used to enter with Chloe. It was lined with old sets of armor belonging to medieval knights and old Japanese samurai. The whole place resembled an ancient castle of some sort. He made a bee line towards the heavy French doors that loomed over the entrance. About thirty feet before the doors, he paused behind a large marble column and opened fire at his pursuers. This time, he was more accurate.

The bullets landed into the stomachs of the mercenaries. Three of them must have died instantly. For the last one, Drake took his time and made aim for his head. The result was a bloody massacre. But, as it always does, his luck ran out. Another group of men came down the hall.

He realized there was no way he could open those massive doors with an injured woman in his arms and fend off the rest of Paul's army at the same time. Inventively, he whipped out a hand grenade and sent it flying at the walls, hoping the impact of the explosion could make a hole in the doors.

Drake could hear the men coming down the hall. The clanking of their boots was frightening. He looked around in his pockets for more magazines but found only five bullets. That grenade had to work.

_Boom_. Drake looked behind at the doors and found the golden-orange ray of the evening sun pour through like a wave. His heart, about to explode from the torrent of emotion boiling inside him, returned to its normal state. He made a dash through, blinding firing bullets behind him to ward off any brave pursuers.

He entered the street, which was lined with old trees and dark shrubs.

Immediately, he heard someone. "Nate, get in!" It was Sully.

The old man pulled up adroitly in a white van. Bullets punched through the van's side, leaving ominous-looking holes.

"Shit!" Drake muttered. He forced open the van doors and threw Chloe and himself in before the mercenaries could open fire with their machine guns.

Sully, who was sitting in the driver's seat with his cigar lingering from the side of his mouth, turned around and said, "Take this, Nate!" He handed him a submachine gun. Drake grabbed it, and with an eye of vengeance, turned around and opened fire from the back of the van as Sully pulled away. He emptied three magazines, and left behind a trail of mangled bodies and fatally wounded men.


	14. Carmen

Elena looked at the mirror. Her blue strapless dress squished her breasts together uncomfortably, but they did look amazing. For the first time in a while, she looked – and more importantly, _felt _– pretty. Her blonde hair was in a cute bun that her friend, Carmen, a hairdresser who lived near Boston, had arranged for her.

"So, how do I look?" Elena asked Carmen, who was sitting on the bed in the hotel room.

"Wow, you look fabulous. You know, the last time you looked like this was in college, remember that guy, what was his name–"

"Hank."

"Yeah, when you went to the ball with Hank. You two were amazing together. You got all the boys in college. I remember me and the other girls used to be so jealous. What happened?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Carmen thought for a moment. Elena was her best friend, and as such had the right to help her out with some critique. "Are you sure you know what you want to do?"

Elena grew frustrated. "Carmen, you're like my sister, and I love you, but please, I don't need you to lecture me about life–"

"You had it all. You had your husband. You had the traveling and adventuring. You two were madly in love. Now, I do not condone going to war-torn parts of the world to do news specials but you were happy and you did what you loved when you were _out there_. Not cooped up in an office like you were in San Francisco, leaving behind your one true love, or going on some silly assignment to Boston of all places."

Elena wanted to retort cleverly and point out the flaws in her argument, much like how an ace reporter is supposed to do. But she understood that Carmen's objections had some validity. She was _lost_. There was no way she could build a career out of interviewing nobodies about silly topics. And more importantly, her outlook for a recovering personal life looked bleak.

She sat down next to her friend on the bed. "You're right. You know I haven't been on a date for the past four years." Elena stared at her dress dejectedly. "I _don't know_. This date is going to be awful."

Carmen rubbed Elena's back. "It'll be okay. It'll all be okay. The guy I set you up with, he's a great guy, he's in television, too, he's over at NBC. He's a writer. You two will get along like two peas in a pod."

Elena rubbed her watery eyes. _Today is the first day of the rest of my life_, she told herself. Unfortunately, she couldn't get herself to believe it.


	15. The Chase

Sully's foot slammed against the gas, as the van lurched forward. He spun the wheel quite adeptly, navigating through the dimly lit boulevard leading up to Paul's mansion. "How the hell did we manage to get in the middle of this shit storm?" he exclaimed.

Drake was in the back, shooting at the mercenaries. Some of them had hopped into black cars – expected for a criminal enterprise – and had started to give chase. They were, well, _persistent_. Drake's submachine gun was of little use as his bullets barely caused dents in the mercenaries' vehicles.

He looked down at Chloe, dodging whizzing bullets, and tried to position her more comfortably. She had suffered a flesh wound in her right leg and stomach, and he had tried wrapping some cloth around the wounds to impede the bleeding. But it wasn't working – she moaned in absolute agony, the pain paralyzing her.

There wasn't much Drake could do. Sully drove the car east on Memorial Drive. The idea was to head into central Boston by crossing the Charles River Basin on the Longfellow Bridge. They would hop off the van at Bowdoin subway station, grab the license plates, and make their way to Chinatown. Unfortunately, their plan, which wasn't much of an exit strategy to begin with, didn't account for a possible car chase across Boston.

"Sully, you take of Chloe! Give me the wheel!" Drake shouted. In a well-practiced transition (this move had saved their lives on multiple occasions), Drake gracefully and dexterously exchanged places with an exhausted Sully.

With bullets slamming into the van like a hailstorm, he had to act quickly. He pulled the damaged white van onto the bridge and drove as fast as possible. The cars in pursuit, unfortunately, weren't falling behind. After navigating the streets of Boston for what seemed like an eternity, Drake noticed the van was low on fuel. The two cars were still close.

An idea came to mind. A suicidal one, but it was still an idea. He was on State Street, approaching Atlantic Avenue. The Aquarium Station was just on his left. He made a dangerous turn onto Atlantic and gunned the van towards the station. The two cars were only feet away from the van.

"What the hellya doin', Nate? You're gonna drive us into the goddamn subway!" Sully exclaimed.

But Drake knew what he was doing. Twenty feet, fifteen feet, ten feet, five feet... For a moment, Drake thought the van was actually going to crash down the stairs into the subway station. But with one powerful grasp, he pulled the van violently to the right, and the two black cars crashed straight into the facility.

Glass and other projectiles shot out as the two pursuing cars smashed together. Unfortunately, Drake had problems of his own. The van could not handle such a violent turn at such a high speed. The vehicle tipped over sideways and skidded along the concrete vehemently. Drake, Chloe, and Sully were thrown around violently in the car.

Finally, the beat up van screeched to a halt. Drake's face was smushed together by air bags. He pushed them away and open his eyes. His forehead ached terribly, and he couldn't see properly. But his mind was still determined and driven. _We need to get out of here before the cops arrive_, he thought. He pulled himself through the smashed windshield.

When he stood up, his legs felt like jelly. He couldn't stay up for long, and had to lean against the side of the van for support.

Sully emerged from the back of the car. He was supporting Chloe, who had a new bruise on the side of her face. The old veteran examined Drake. "I'm okay kid, don't worry. Let's just get the hell out of here."

Drake nodded. He looked around for a second and for the first time noticed the destruction he had caused. People were screaming, chairs and tables belonging to outdoor eateries were wrecked and ruined, pieces of glass and porcelain plates were interspersed throughout the wreckage.

The chaos he himself had created was shocking and mystifying. He could not want to leave a trail of ruin behind him. Was it all worth it? Was it all...

"Drake?"

He turned around. He froze.


	16. The Date

The sun gleamed lazily over the Atlantic Ocean. Peppery red and gleaming orange had been etched hastily across the evening, light-blue sky, as if a watercolor artist had forgotten how to mix colors together.

That Boston evening was lazy and slow, not uncommon for the city of artists, intellectuals, and commercial leaders. Bostonians loved to be happy and spend life in the pursuit of happiness. It was a mesmerizingly attractive and healthy lifestyle.

But in spite of all the slowness, Elena was a lightning strike of youth and sexiness on the shore. Her shiny blue dress was a diamond in the rough. One could have easily mistaken her for a supermodel.

Heads spun. Men stared. Woman glanced enviously. In fact, during her short twenty foot walk to the restaurant, Legal Sea Food, about five men tried to hit on her and get her number. For the first time in a while, she felt pure and _sexy_. She had been liberated. From Drake. From her own feelings of inferiority and despair.

"Hi, I'm looking for a Todd Stevens," Elena said to a waitress, smiling. She was led to a table with a beautiful view of the ocean. She was absolutely amazed by the shiny, silver sheen of the blue water before her. She was about to comment about it when she stopped–

"Hey, I take it you're Elena, Carmen's friend?"

Never before had Elena seen someone so indisputably handsome. Everything about him was handsome. His perfect face, his clear white skin, the cute brown stubble that dotted his cheeks and chin. His glasses were sharp and angular, his eyes were relaxed by intriguing, and he wore a silver Rolex. _He was rich_. (She could've sworn she saw the suit he was wearing in Vogue. That piece of cloth from heaven cost $13,000.)

The man whom she'd just met emanated confidence, exuberance, class, and vivaciousness all at the same time. He was like a more mature, manly, sophisticated, intelligent Drake. A _better _Drake. Just a _better man_. Her thoughts instantly turned to marriage, to having two beautiful babies, to having kids that ended up winning Nobel Prizes or becoming fashion models...

"Hello?" he asked. She had been daydreaming.

"Oh, my gosh, I'm so sorry," she said quickly. She blushed. For once, she had something going for herself.

"Yeah, you seem to really love the ocean. It's a beautiful thing." His voice was silky and smooth. But still hardy and masculine. "You know, when I was in college, I founded a water conservation club on campus. We ended up saving hundreds of marine animals. God, I love the ocean."

He _cared for the Earth_? He saved _marine animals_? Was he even _human_? Elena was more and more attracted to him every second.

"So, uh, I've been jabbering along. Tell me about yourself. What do you do?"

"Oh, uh," Elena mumbled, "I, um, I used to have my own show. _Modern Mysteries_. Dunno if you've seen it–"

"Oh my _god_. You're _that _Elena Fisher? _Jesus Christ_. I literally _love _that show. I own every episode!" He enthusiastically whipped out his phone and showed her. He, indeed, had every episode. Elena was turned on to a whole new level. This man was no man at all. He was her dream man. All the puzzles seemed to fit. She didn't care if all he wanted was to sleep with her. She'd do nothing to be near him.

"You know, your eyes look even more beautiful in person..."

The rest of the meal was a dream. He was sexy. She _felt _sexy. It was all perfect. But of course, all dreams must end. This time, however, it wasn't an irritating alarm clock or frustrated mother who came to end the most amazing night of Elena's life – it was an _explosion_.

_Boom_. The thunderous sound ripped through the small seaside plaza. At first, her heart stopped – was it a terrorist attack? What the hell was going on? She was paralyzed with fear... But then his swooping, majestic arms, his strong biceps and powerful muscles, he embraced her, held her, picked her up, and so gracefully – you wouldn't even think that a stone was out of place in the city, let alone an _explosion... _

It was a fairy tale. He led her out, so bravely, without questioning, so instinctively, like a _real _man. She wanted to be his. She didn't care anymore. Her heart was at ease, for the first time in months...

And then she saw him.

Of course, she had to see him.

_Of course_, she would've said to herself, if she wasn't so shocked, and _unpleasantly_ surprised.

All she could muster was, "Shit. Shit, shit, shit. _Dammit_."


	17. Reunion

"You know that guy?" Todd asked, mystified. He was hoping to run away quickly from the explosion area, but his date for the night mysteriously was captivated with this one shabby guy covered in soot and bloody scars.

"Yeah..." Elena replied, her voice conveying a strong mental preoccupation with something other than her date. She thrust her handbag into Todd's hands. Todd hated when girls did that. Elena walked briskly to the man – and eventually started running, in spite of her high heels – and went near him.

"What the _hell_, Nate?" Elena exclaimed, bewildered and frightened beyond belief. Both her hands rubbed through her hair. "What the _hell_?"

"Oh, boy," Sully interrupted. The scene of a tired, bent-over Sully with a bloodied, clearly wounded Chloe on his back almost gave her a heart attack. All she wanted was a decent dinner with a decent man. And _this _was what she got. _Absolute madman_, she thought, disgusted with the whole situation. "You two gonna take a while, or should I wait?" he added, with cruel sarcasm.

_Never start off with a clichéd, meaningless line when meeting your estranged ex-wife for the first time in months_, Drake thought, as he went over the rules of relationships with women in his mind. Other than Chloe and the female guards at prison, he hadn't spoken to any female in a while. He quickly touched her shoulders, "Look, Elena, I can explain..."

Elena quickly shoved his arms, away. "What the _hell_, Nate?" She peered behind him and evaluated Sully and Chloe. "And you dragged _them _along, didn't you?"

"Is there a problem?" Todd intervened, impatiently. He was uneasy. _We need to get out of here_, he thought to himself. Of course, no one listened to the man with a pretty face and extensive record of selfless community service and ocean conservation.

Drake was startled. "Who the hell is he?" he asked, pointing to Todd. Elena was suddenly embarrassed. She had forgotten Todd was still there.

"Never mind introductions," Elena blurted. "We need to get to a hospital... I've got a rental car... I swear to God, Nate. This is worse than how our meeting played out in my nightmares..." She instantly grabbed her bag from him and ran off. Sully, along with Chloe, dashed off behind her.

Drake stood across from Todd, confused, and slightly overprotective. But he restrained himself. He touched Todd's right shoulder. "Sorry, man. She does that a lot." When Drake realized that this man would have wasted his entire evening and lost a potential girlfriend, he added, in a friendly tone, "Look at the bright side. You won't have to deal with that, huh?"

Instantly, Drake realized the flaw in his argument. Elena's strengths outweighed her weaknesses manifold. In spite of his surroundings, which included exploding vehicles, screaming people, and ominous smoke, he felt oddly supported, as if fate had handed him a shortcut to his main goal.

Of course, Drake, in his usual fit of excessive optimism and lack of pragmatic thinking, didn't understand that this was _not a good sign_. At least for him and his motley crew, fate was never helpful.

Drake looked down at the ground for a moment, in order to avoid Todd's bewildered eyes. Then he scurried off to follow the rest of his gang – with Elena.


	18. The Counterattack

The Italian criminal underworld in Boston was, to the say the least, _unimpressive_. Paul knew that. So when, armed with his degrees in World History and Israeli Studies, asked to join his family's struggling operations, he was frowned upon. People didn't expect much of him. For years, all he did was go to libraries and read and read and read. No body hiding, or evidence manipulating, or killing. Just _reading_. His uncles figured that'd be the best way to keep the scrawny, unimposing, clumsy man out of the real day-to-day of the crime organization. Paul's tenuous relationship with his relatives finally erupted when one day, mysteriously, he disappeared.

His uncles didn't bother to inquire where their nephew had gone off, too. They were certain he was a dead man. Until one day, he barged into their west Boston mansion and killed them. Point-blank range, with a silencer. It was discovered only five months later that his four uncles were killed. And it took almost seven years for investigators to decipher that it was Paul, himself, who had committed the horrendous crime.

That was thirty years ago. Since then, Paul had established and nurtured a vast criminal empire. Everything from extortion, smuggling, and drug-dealing to kidnapping and murdering. His organization did everything. In fact, at one point of time, six of his organization's members were on the F.B.I's Most Wanted List.

But Paul was not stupid. He had an informer with the Boston police. He knew went to get rid of the people in his organization that he didn't like. That way, he kept his people clean and loyal; in other words, he ran an airtight operation, known throughout the Boston underworld for its efficiency and ruthlessness.

But he also knew that petty crimes were not the way to make money. Robberies could only fill the coffers for so long. When he found something of grave interest twenty-six years ago, reading in the Boston Public Library, he devoted his life to finding that Israeli treasure. The very same one Drake had found.

All he needed was the violin. _Just one stupid violin_. He had hoped that Chloe Frazer would accept his offer. He would have given her ten million dollars if she killed Drake, which was why he also hired Victor Sullivan.

Paul was cognizant. The second he had discovered Drake was in town, he chose to eliminate him. Quite prudently. Drake had managed to kill his third cousin, Talbot, somewhere halfway across the world. Given his intense paranoia, he was not about to let his leads on that treasure evaporate.

But, of course, the whole deal went south. He hadn't expected that Chloe would shoot, first. After all, in spite of her aiding Drake in his cousin's death a while back, he thought she would choose money over silly camaraderie.

More importantly, he hadn't expected that Drake knew about the treasure. Forcing him to divulge the information when he held Chloe at gunpoint, he thought he had the upper hand. But that damned Chloe. She was smart. _And she was an excellent shot_, he thought, glaring down at his stomach wound.

Paul was lying on the ground, behind an overturned wooden table. He had been shot. Blood poured from the wound. The pain was excruciating. There weren't any other men in the room. They were either dead or had gone to pursue Drake.

They were probably all dead.

Suddenly, Paul heard a muffled noise coming from the pile of fallen books next to him. In spite of the pain, he searched desperately in the pile, finally finding a walkie-talkie.

"Sir, are you there?" one of his men said.

Paul coughed. The pain was unbearable. "Yes, yes, I'm here. I need an ambulance–"

"Sir, there's two women."

Paul forgot about the pain for a moment. "What? There's _two_?"

"Yes, sir. One, I believe she's Chloe – she's injured terribly. Nearly dead. But there's another, a fair skinned woman with blonde hair."

"Are you in the helicopter?"

"Yes, sir. It appears they haven't seen us yet. The new News Channel 85 paint job is really working-"

"Pursue her. I want everything you know about her. We might finally get some leverage over this, Mr. Drake."

"And there's two men. One is Victor. The other, I don't know."

"Good. We can kill _him _to make an example out of him. Now, here's exactly what I want you to do..."

Paul had come up with a plan. As always. _Mr. Drake... You are a dead man_, he thought.


	19. Hospital

"So this is all magically _my _fault?"

"No, it's not your fault, at all. It's actually" – Elena paused her rant, looked around quickly, and pointed to a male nurse who was passing by – "all _his fault_. You see, that nurse managed to get your two best friends shot at... _They could've died, Nate!_"

"Wait, I didn't have any idea that these guys would have machine guns, and freaking sports cars. I did my research, I did what I had to do..." Drake was flustered.

"What you _had _to do? Should you really be the one claiming that he did exactly _what he had to do_?" Elena threw her arms in the air. "What you _had to do _was stay and not leave me like I'm some sort of godforsaken prostitute!" Tears danced down her soft, white cheeks. Her makeup was getting spoiled. Elena's hair was once again in her characteristic bun. Drake didn't know what to say.

"I think you two should have some time alone," Sully said, trying to fend off the engulfing awkwardness. He walked down the hospital hall. "I'll check on Chloe," he called.

"Do you honestly think my staying in California would have helped things? I mean, don't you remember? We used to fight all the time, and the, and the job, and you going to all those media galas meeting all those powerful media men... While _I_, your 'dear' husband, was all alone in the apartment. I mean, did you for once even bother to help me find a job?"

"Yeah, yeah, I did, you could've worked at the museum–"

"As a goddamn _janitor_?" This last emphatic statement of Drake's was loud. The hall grew quiet for a moment, before the chatter and noise of its occupants returned.

Elena dug her face in her hands. She was crying heavily now. Drake had been to severe. He knew it. He gently tried to touch her shoulders. She pushed him away. His heart sank.

_Beep, beep, beep_. Her cellphone rang. It was a welcome interruption to the uncomfortable silence between them. She rummaged through her purse and found it.

"Hello? Tom, oh my gosh, Jesus, I'm so sorry for leaving like that–"

Drake snorted. _Tom_. Elena gave him a dirty look.

"Yeah, I'm free right now, yeah I can meet you there. Ten minutes? Okay, see you then."

He gaped. "So, you're leaving? When we're trying to sort things out, you just leave?"

"_You _should have experience with that," Elena said in a hostile tone. "I did what I had to do. Hopefully you can handle it from here." She stormed off, glad to leave him behind. She had nothing against Chloe and Sully. But that son of a bitch.

Drake couldn't believe it. And he was trying to get back with _that _soul-sucking monster? He should've just slept with Chloe.

_Dammit_.


	20. Execution

Elena pulled up to the small jazz club in her small, white rented Prius. She pulled down the mirror a few inches above her and evaluated herself. She was a mess. Adroitly, she dabbed her cheeks with some makeup and fixed her mascara. She was going to make a good impression, and make up for her mistake – Tom was a great guy, and Elena wouldn't let herself screw it up.

The club was dimly lit and dark, with purple and blue walls. But the lighting was interesting, the sonorous jazz agreeable, and it was a nice change of pace from that evening's stress. Plus, it smelled like red velvet cake and mocha coffee – her two favorite things.

Tom greeted her at the bar.

"Oh, Elena, hey," he said. He seemed genuinely enthusiastic about seeing her, which is more than Elena could say about Drake.

"Hi. Listen, Tom, about tonight–"

"Hey," he interrupted. He danced his index finger down her right cheek. "It's fine. I don't care. At least we can hang out some more, right?" Without any hesitation, he called for a waiter and ordered two mocha coffees and a large slice of red velvet cake.

"How did you know–"

"Know what?"

"I love mocha coffee and red velvet."

"No kidding! They're _my absolute favorites_."

Elena knew she was in love.

After gorging on the scrumptious delicacies, Elena turned her attention to the new jazz song playing. It was quick and fluid – high tempo, smooth, but at the same time violent and rhythmic. It was _electrifying_. Tom was enraptured. He forgot about all the unbelievable, unusual happenings of the past couple of hours and turned to the girl of his dreams – "Wanna dance?" he said, smoothly and coolly. Elena had no choice. He took away her free will. She was _his_.

The dance floor was filled with couples, but Tom and Elena were the only two to dance _well_. Their quick steps, the breathtaking twirls, his beige suit and her bright blue dress – they were dynamite. People stopped to stare. They weren't two distinct people. They were one.

They danced for a long time. In fact, by the time they walked out of the club at one o'clock in the morning, laughing and happy, they didn't realize how much fun they'd really had.

Tom held Elena close, his hands on her waist. "You, my darling, are coming home _with me_, tonight." She beamed, her face shining with enthusiasm and energy. It was a new beginning. For once, _she was happy_.

And then it happened.

It was loud. Cartoonish almost, but deafening. She struggled under the weight.

Everything seemed to slip away... Time, life, joy...

In a matter of seconds, life itself, the universe, time and God and the heavens, all seemed to topple, her brain dazed and unable to find reality.

Like Satan himself, the man in the black suit seemed to just walk away. He drifted off, vanished into thin air, like a ghost. Like a phantom.

_Poof_.

Her heart stopped.


	21. Aftermath

Elena struggled under Tom's weight. He was considerably large (from his muscles), and though she tried to hold his dropping arms and chest, she fell over too. She could feel the coldness spill over her. She didn't know what to do. Her purse smashed beside her, torn and worn. Its contents poured out – lipstick, phone, coupons.

The man, donned in a black fedora and black suit, approached her and Tom. The smoke still rising from his gun, he fired another shot a few inches from Elena's face. Blood splattered. She could feel it streaming and spraying across her face.

But the paralyzing fear kept her still. She couldn't move. Her heart had managed to disappear. Her throat was clogged by pockets of utter terror. The man moved on slowly and cautiously, walking away. Nobody had seen him or heard him. The street was deserted. The alleyway they were in was secluded.

Then she heard the man speak something. "It's done, sir. They're done." The conversation faded away as the distance between the man and her grew.

Finally, until she couldn't handle it any longer, she lunged for her cell phone and dialed the first person on her contact list – Drake. She didn't know why his number was still there, but it was. She needed him. _Only _him.

Each time the cellphone rang near her ears, it felt like an eternity had passed. The terror was enveloping her, consuming her like a firestorm, until–

"Elena?"

"Nate."

He immediately noticed the immeasurable pain indicated in her shaky, soft voice.

"Elena, what's wrong? Where the hell are you–"

"Nate." She couldn't stop her tears. "He's dead." She turned to her right and saw only blood splattered everywhere. Even if she had been in Satan's presence herself she could not have felt more sorrow or pain.

"Who's dead? What's going on? Jesus, Elena, where are you?" Drake was panicking. He could not let anything happen to her. Not again.

She started to cry. He could hear her. Each time she heard her, it was as if a knife sliced through his own heart. He couldn't bear it.

"I dunno. I don't know. I don't–"

Drake hung up. He ran down the hallway, expertly dodging wheelchairs and doctors, and entered an elevator. He pressed the button for the ground floor exactly forty two times.

After waiting an entire eon, he jumped out and barged through the glass doors. Using his smartphone's Find Your Friends application, he traced Elena's location quite quickly. (Months on the West Coast had made him tech savvy).

"Jazz club? An alley _behind _the jazz club? What the _hell _were they doin'?" Drake asked himself.

He dashed into a yellow taxicab and had the driver floor it.

Drake shoved some cash into the driver's hands and jumped out of the cab. He cautiously walked near the club, which was closed. He turned to his right and found a side alleyway. It was ominous. He walked in wearily. He couldn't find anything, until–

"Nate!"

He could hear Elena's desperate plea. He turned immediately and saw the most horrid thing he'd ever seen. Tom's bloodied corpse lying over hers. Instantly, the horrible memories of Elena's wound in Shambhala flooded his mind. He rushed over to her.

Drake gently touched her cheek. "Elena, baby, everything's gonna be fine–" He thought she was shot. He touched her closely. Drake heaved Tom's body off her. The blood was everywhere.

Noticing that she wasn't shot, he was relieved. His heart returned to its place. He picked her up, and with her shoulder around his neck, he walked forward slowly, trudging along.

Elena was quiet. They had walked almost three blocks until Drake heard her say something.

"Nate," she cried quietly. She stopped. And started to cry. She dug her face into Drake's chest, and wrapped her fragile, white arms around him in solemn desperation. Drake, for a moment, didn't know what to do–

"Hug me back, you idiot," she said, tears flowing down her beautiful eyes. Drake took his arms and held them tightly around her.

In spite of Elena's crying, it was the first time they had embraced – or had any emotional connection, for that matter – in a very long time. Drake's eyes became watery, too.

_He had almost lost her_.

They stood there, on the sidewalk of the dark Boston street, for a very long time.


	22. The Talk

"So, who were they? Those black cars? That dark man? Who are they?"

Elena's voice was sweet and calm. Drake missed it. She sat on the bed, with a shawl around her shoulders, sipping on a cup of hot chocolate. Her hair was again in its usual bun, just the way he liked it.

"There's this mobster named Paul–"

"First it was Indonesian pirates. Then some European warlord. And _now _the _mob_. Jeez, have I been getting older, or have you just been getting more and more insane, Nate?"

"Look, Elena–"

"They _killed _Tom. They _could have _killed me. In fact, they probably wanted to kill me. I mean, they probably saw me. But, they, they, they – they could've killed _you_." Elena was emphatic.

Sully quickly interjected, "I'll be in the other room." He walked out of the bedroom of their small Hampton Inn hotel suite. Smoking wasn't allowed in the hotel, much to his irritation. He couldn't handle this much emotion without a good smoke. He closed the doors behind him.

"Look, Elena, let me," he said softly, "let me explain. Everything."

He started from the top. From the Amazon all the way to yesterday's car chase.

"And why are you competing with a psychopathic drug kingpin for some Israeli treasure?"

Drake never considered that. _Why_. It had never crossed his mind.

"You didn't think that far ahead, did you?" Elena asked, exhausted and weary.

He looked up at her and grinned. "No." She grinned, too.

"But, listen, after what happened in the mansion and all–"

"What happened? You left _that _out, conveniently. How did it go down with Paul? Nate, answer me." She gently punched his shoulder.

"Paul hired Chloe to take me and Sully out. But she didn't. He threatened to kill her, and because I'm the hero who saves the day all the time, I had to whip out my gun and shoot the ol' bastard. Of course, in my rush to save the day, I forgot about the one hundred heavily armed mercs roaming through his house. Thus, the car explosion, the fallen over van, and, and Chloe." He paused. "I really didn't mean for anyone to get hurt, or anything..."

Elena looked down. She knew how he felt. Getting other people in harm's way, especially those trying to help you, can hurt a lot more than getting injured yourself. She touched him on his shoulder.

"Well, forget the goddamn Amazon, Nate. Those guys are, they're insane. And I wouldn't normally suggest this, but we've lost too much to turn back and give up."

Drake looked up. Her blue eyes twinkled with courage. He wasn't expecting that.

"So _you _of all people wanna go ahead with this thing?"

"It's better than staring at paperwork at my stupid desk job."

"And, those guys, they're obviously up to no good. We can't let them get _more _power. Not after all they've done to you and me..." Her voice trailed off. Drake remembered Tom, and how beautiful Elena had made herself look on her date. He knew it was wrong, but he felt jealous.

"Tell me something, Elena," he asked, turning to look at her. "Did you really like him?"

She nodded. Feelings of guilt and disappointment ran through him. But he also felt impotent, for some reason, as if he was still Elena's husband and couldn't make her happy. She had moved on. He still hadn't. He felt immature and childish and inferior.

Elena decided to change the subject. "At least, Chloe's doing all right, right?"

Drake mumbled half-heartedly, "Yeah." He knew he should've been more concerned about Chloe. But he knew she was a fighter. She was going to be fine. She said it herself. (Though she was delirious from her wounds when she did say it.)

He felt embarrassed, for some reason. He took out his wallet, notebook, and watch and dumped them on the bedside table. "I'm gonna go to the lobby and get some dinner." His voice was solemn and dejected. Elena could make that out.

He left in a hurry, and Elena instantly felt bad. She didn't mean to come across as distant or careless. She most definitely was still in love with Drake – but she thought he'd be happier if they spent some time apart. After all, she still wasn't completely over his leaving – she was still indignant about it. She didn't even know what or who she loved anymore.

His wallet was black and leathery. It shone brightly under the lamp light. She noticed it and picked it up. With some hesitation, she decided to open it.

There, right in the little slit covered with clear plastic, was a picture of her. It was taken just a year ago, in Tahiti. She was wearing her blue bikini and hat, her fancy sunglasses, and was sipping on some beverage. The kind of drink with a little _umbrella _in it.

Memories of happier times flooded through her. She took the small picture out and looked at it intently. She flipped it over and on the back she found some quick scrawl.

_My name is Nathan Drake, and Elena Fisher will again be my wife by 2014_. Underneath, she read his terrible signature.

She smiled, in spite of the tears streaming down her cheeks. She saw the signs of wear and grease on the bottom of the photograph – he'd kept it with him all this time, in spite of prison, or war zones, or firefights.

He really did love her. He always had, he still did, and always would.

She started to cry. She dug her face into her hands. She couldn't be in love with the man who left her. No, she had dignity. She was a human being. She had self-respect. She couldn't love that, horrible, stupid, insane, idiotic, brave, heroic, intensely cute man out there–

_Goddamnit_.


	23. To Israel

The morning was blurry and dusty. The hotel room had improper ventilation, and by the time Drake woke up from his dreary slumber, his sinuses were congested. He tiredly stood up from the couch, and breathed deeply.

The flight to Jerusalem was today. From there, one of Elena's associates – the bureau chief for some prestigious news service in the region – would arrange for them a flight to Acre, the source of unthinkable treasure.

He glanced at the clock. It read 6:45. He stepped into the shower and rubbed his hair. It wasn't disappointment specifically that he felt. It was more a feeling of failure; that he was chasing Elena, who in fact had done the mature thing and moved on. He was pursuing a ghost, an evaporated, inaccurate perception of the past. He could not paint his fantasies on the future.

"Nate?"

Drake was donning his characteristic shirt and jeans when he heard Elena's call from the bedroom. He finished putting his clothes on and entered. "What's up?"

"What the hell is it with you and these notes?"

"What do you mean?" Drake inquired, worried that Elena had found his notes.

"'I will do my laundry every week. I will brush my teeth with my own brush. I will maintain decent personal hygiene.' I mean, what is with all of these?"

Sully chuckled loudly. He was reclining on the couch, smoking a cigar. The smoke rose from his place. Drake gave him a dirty look.

"After the giant debacle that was our experience in the Amazon," Sully explained, in a professorial manner, "our little friend Nate over here decided it'd be a good idea to listen to his therapist and write little motivational notes for himself. What a wuss. _It's pathetic_."

"OK, Sully," Drake replied, willing to defend himself. "I sincerely apologize for my attempts to improve myself–"

"All right, all right." Elena grinned. Drake was visibly flustered and frustrated. She moved her hands through her hair and made her characteristic pony tail. "OK, moving on - when's our flight?"

"Very soon," Sully said. He stood up and tossed some papers and small booklets at her. "Those are your immigration papers."

"You know, I have my own passport," Elena said, glancing at her files.

"Yeah, but you can go to these places as a journalist. But since there's no agency to sponsor you–" Drake paused for a moment, realizing that getting fired is a touchy topic.

"No, no, go on. It's fine." Drake was surprised. Elena had changed. She seemed refreshed. _Ready_. He liked it.

"We're all private citizens. And we need to be discrete. Get there before Paul's men get there."

"And Chloe?" Elena asked, sincerely. Her eyes twinkled in the morning sunlight. Those blue spots of pure beauty and unparalleled openness – they were so intensely amazing. Drake couldn't help but stare...

"Nate?"

"Right, yeah. Sully talked to her. She's recovering well. Our story for the police is all sorted out. Luckily, there are no witnesses who saw us there, given the crazy explosion and all... It's a miracle, I tell you... And Sully may or may not have quite expertly tampered with any possible evidence. Long story short, we'll be fine."

"Okay." Elena breathed deeply. Last night's tears had washed away her sadness.

_Let's do this_, she thought.


	24. Flight

"So _this _is all you could get?"

"Yeah, what's wrong?"

"No, nothing. You know, except for the seats, seat belts, televisions, oh yeah, and _other passengers_. Sully, this is a goddamn _cargo plane_. It's filled with boxes and things – we could get crushed in the first three hundred feet of the damn flight."

"Nate-"

"No, Sully. No. Were you even thinking when you got us this plane? Oh wait, no, you obviously _weren't_."

"NATE!" Sully proclaimed. "I need you to calm down. We're not flying in the cargo area. I'm flying the damn thing. I still have my license, I am still allowed to fly. This is unimpressive, I know. But it's something. I shelled out every penny to get us this chance. Every penny of _mine_. So show a little appreciation."

"Wow, Sully," Elena said. "I don't know how you do it. Well." She hopped on. "You guys coming?"

"So you're okay with this?" Drake asked her. "If I recall correctly, the last time we flew a plane to some remote location we crashed, and had to fight insane _zombies_."

"In the event of zombies," Elena explained, "we use _these_." She peered into a box and pulled out a small silver handgun. "You don't miss a detail, do you, Sully?"

Drake put his arms at his hips. Sully was about to take a puff from his cigar and when Drake knocked the cigar out of his fingers. "We are _not _shooting _anything _or _anybody_. Not after what happened just two _freaking days ago_."

"Nate," Sully said sternly. "Lemme tell you something. We're thieves. We don't have the moral high ground. We've killed before. And if we have to do it again, we will. Don't try to hide yourself in this cloak of superiority and morality, because it's all bullshit, and you know it. This is the reality of it all. Guns, blood, death. We tried to avoid it in Boston. We did. But we weren't ready. Now we are. Now we have to be. Now let's get on before somebody sees us. I went through hell to sneak all this shit onto the plane."

Nate stood still. Israel was not going to be fun.


	25. Deja Vu

"All right, kids. We're descending."

Drake peered down through the window. He was sitting next to Sully, in the co-pilot's seat. The ground below him was tan and sandy. All he could see was the tiny runway a few miles ahead. Other than that and a few houses interspersed throughout the desert, there was nothing. How the hell would they find it?

Drake turned around and looked at Elena. "Remember that–"

"Don't remind me. That was one giant cluster–"

"Whoa, didn't realize our little girl became such a potty mouth, did we?" Sully joked.

Elena shook her head.

Sully laughed. "All right, seat belts on, folks. This isn't exactly the newest of airports. Things might get bumpy." He grinned. Drake couldn't understand why he was so calm.

"All right, steady now..." Sully muttered. Drake could see the white painted lines on the runway now. He turned to his right and saw some black jeeps and armed men. Soldiers. This was Israel, anyway.

"Whoa." Sully said, quite loudly. Everyone had felt a heavy jolt. "What the hell...?" Another jolt. Elena screamed.

"What's going on?" Drake asked, panicking.

"I dunno, I'm losing control!" Sully tried to pull the plane up sharply, but the engines were not responsive. Suddenly, all the lights in the cockpit went out. The roar of the engines dimmed.

"Shit, what's happening now?"

"Acre Center, two-two-three. This is two-two-three. Engine failure. We are now in a glide. Request permission for danger-close landing, over." Sully's voice was filled with a bad concoction of fear and panic.

"In your seats, now!" Sully screamed. "Brace for impact!" The silence of the plane as it slid downwards towards the flat runway was ominous.

Suddenly, the engines roared to life. Sully had closed his eyes, so Drake lurched across and forced the handle forward. The plane pulled up sharply.

_Pit-pat. Pit-pat. Shoom. Shoom. _"Look! They're shooting!" Elena screamed.

Drake looked down, and just ten feet below him, he saw the armed men he'd seen before in jeeps. Except this time, they were shooting. Bullets thrashed the side of the cockpit, piercing through electronics.

Sully screamed in bitter agony. A bullet had found it's way into his thigh.

"Hold on..." Drake muttered. The plane was going to crash into the air traffic control tower if he didn't do something fast. He thrust the handle to the right. The plane turned sideways, its right wing pointing directly towards the sky.

"Jesus CHRIST!" Elena shouted from the back. The cockpit door had whipped open, and a huge fire filled the cargo area.

Drake realized that this wasn't a mechanical failure. Their plane was being _shot_.

He found a green lever labeled "Controller Switch". He pulled it hard, and the manual control of the plane fell to the co-pilot seat.

The plane was flying in an awkward position. Its engines, on fire and about to burst, could not last for much longer.

_Boom_.

The shock scared Drake. He looked down at the dashboard and found that the left engine had blown.

_Boom_.

The right engine was gone, too.

"Drake, do something!" Elena called from behind.

If the plane continued to play sideways, then there wouldn't be enough vertical lift to keep it in the air. A little bit of wind could flop it over and send it down to the ground. Drake tried to turn the plane back to its normal position and glide it for a landing but it wasn't working.

Then an idea popped into his head.

He slammed the handle hard to the left. He was going to roll the plane over to get it stable again. The plane's gears and engines screeched loudly. The flames were closing in on the cockpit. He could hear Elena's desperate screams and crying. Sweat poured down his face. The holes in the shattered glass blew dusty wind into the cockpit, making visibility low.

His plan worked. The plane was flying upside down. It was awkward, but stable. All he needed to do was to roll it back over again...

Suddenly, a massive explosion tore through the right wing. Drake looked over and saw the entire wing collapse. The plane violently lurched out of its position and began to descend vehemently.

Elena and Sully screamed. Drake turned to his right and saw the black jeeps pursuing their plane. RPGs and bullets streamed from the weapons of the armed men. He could the smoke trails of the missiles just miss the plane.

The plane was uncontrollable. He saw a small town up ahead, and he tried to steer away from it, but the plane wasn't responding to its controls. All he could do was let go of the controls and see where his inferno-fireball landed.

The flames flapped loudly. The engines belched and squeezed and steamed. Elena and Sully's cries pierced through the surreal action-movie noise.

Drake gulped. He was helpless.


End file.
